to work

the photograph is of boys,
unsmiling,
three rows of young men,
tightly bound shoulder
to small shoulder,
Italian, irish, polish,
each with cropped
hair, the smudge and wind of
the steel factory engrained
upon their faces. cold embers
and ash. they are old
men already. behind them is mill.
the long cannon stacks with plumes
of black swirling in the cold
grey sky. most likely they are all
dead now, long buried somewhere
in the hills of Monrovia.
each story untold. the burden
of their lives buried with them,
so much they, or even we won't
ever know.